Conversations with a Brute
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "He wanted to rip the smile from his face and stamp on it. He had examined, and checked, this side of himself before." Joseph considers the truth, amongst other things.


**Author's note:** None of the characters herein belong to me. They are the property of Disney and Meg Cabot.

This story had been lying around for a while, and I was never truly happy with it. I've revised it a little and I think the standard is a bit better. Please R&R.

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><p>Joseph watched the younger man leave and felt both sorry for him and angry at his ignorance. The neighing of the horses filled the stables and aside from that, the only noise was the laboured breathing of the Viscount. The heat was pressing against him, making him sweat under leather and the anger he was feeling was making him perspire even more. He pressed his hand to his side; a silly habit really, but before any confrontation he checked that his holster was still snug against the side of his pectoral muscle. Cold comfort.<p>

More than anything, he hated when one human being humiliated another.

He had a well-founded suspicion that Nicholas had little, if anything, to do with his uncle's scheming. He loathed the Viscount, for more reasons that one, and while he understood quite eloquently that the Queen could look after herself he despised the way the Viscount was treating her. He took it as a rather personal insult. Of course, that was foolish in itself.

He steeled himself as he came face to face with the parliamentarian.

"Viscount, you may not be aware of what my job entails as the Royal Head of Security. My job is to protect the crown. To make sure no harm comes to the crown. To step in when someone toys with the crown's emotions."

Joseph was quietly pleased that he'd managed to maintain such neutrality in his voice that he appeared casually informative. Clarisse was a lady to her bones and with that came an aristocratic sense of right and wrong that he did not possess – all he had in his possession and at his disposal was rage. He had, in short, not been joking when he had offered to have him 'hung by his toes in our courtyard'. He would have taken great pleasure in removing the man's toenails, one by one, if it had meant that they would leave her be to pass the throne on to the Princess.

He shouldn't be taking it personally but he was.

"I think the entire country understands how well you cater for the crown's emotions."

He wanted to rip the smile from his face and stamp on it. He had examined, and checked, this side of himself before. It was the reason he was in this job; the brutality that he tried hard to mask every day was what made his CV attractive. Training had led to compartmentalisation which led to shutting down anger until it spilled over. He was 2 different people; brute force under designer suits; a man who read poetry but carried a gun; a thin veneer of manners stretched over a glaring void of violence and brute force.

The only thing that neutralised it was her.

He knew his face displayed his displeasure but he had already committed to the anger that was poisoning his veins. He brushed his hand against the holster under his jacket again, a calming pass over the barrier between right and wrong. He would never use it – he would not invite that kind of dishonour into her life and into her household. Plus, killing a nobleman was never wise. He stalled himself.

He needed to push aside how entirely and utterly insulting it was for the Viscount to have said that. The implication was disgusting.

"If you hurt my girl, you will answer directly to me, and whatever crimes I commit against you, remember, I have diplomatic immunity in 46 countries, including Puerto Rico."

He thought of chasing the man, like chasing a fat bore through the woods – a partly clever animal, but with little physical stamina. He would hunt him down in a moment and tear his throat out. It would be in the jungles of Puerto Rico, if anywhere.

"Sir, you will find that the word "fear" is not in my vocabulary."

Joe derived pleasure from that because he was a firm believer in the idea that one did not have to say something to feel it. And vice-versa. No, what gave away a feeling was the almost imperceptible reaction of the body. What gave it away was the way in the Viscount's eyes and face were set in a stoniness of fear. Fear, pouring fourth in a sweat of urgency.

"Perhaps... but it's in your eyes."

He lifted the rubber snake and placed it on the Viscount's shoulder. A rubber snake; an amateur who had come across a stroke of luck. He left the man then, making his way outside and into the sun. He slipped his sun glasses on and strode past the horses and the stable boy who was exercising them.

On the path ahead of him, curving back towards the palace, he could see Clarisse and Mia in quiet conference. But after that he could not bear to face her – it would be to defile her further, to invade her privacy just one step more. He ducked to the left instead, heading further into the wooded area of the palace grounds. He wanted to strip himself off and clean and scrub until the anger left him but his rooms were, obviously, in the opposite direction to where he was headed. He pulled his jacket off, tugged at his polo-neck to loosen its constricting hold around his neck. It made no difference. He still couldn't get enough oxygen to fill his lungs.

He strode into a less well tended area, diverting off the path and into the coolness of the woods. He was alone here. He felt the rage building in his chest, felt it ball in the back of his throat where it chocked him.

The implication was disgusting. It was vile. It was loathsome and grotesque.

It was, in part, true.

He found himself in a grassy clearing that he came to often. Sometimes he came alone to have a moment of just silence – of just being him. At other times, when she was willing to forgo her favoured high heels and don some shoes suitable for walking, they would venture out here together. There was more privacy. He had brought her here for a picnic before he had gone to America to fetch the princess, before the world had tilted onto its axis. They had eaten in the clearing, hands pressed together on the rich wool of the blanket, sipped cool wine and watched the sun disappear behind the trees. The last time he had been here, everything had been so private.

He sat down in the middle of the clearing, where they had sat a few weeks ago, and placed his jacket down beside him. The sun was intense and it burned the back of his neck as he dipped his head. If he concentrated, he could hear the stragglers from the Inspection of the Royal Guard. Always a timetable full of useless, stupid ceremonies that were founded on tradition rather than any good reason. Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi was a child of the 21st century and she was not made for traditions – no wonder she failed, and he hated to use that word, at every turn. But she was failing and the worm was turning. The Renaldis were running out of luck and their queen and Head of Security were right at the helm of the charge.

And so were the press, the press were turning too. Whispers, suggestions, implications which reached their ears far more often than they used to. Implications enrobed in truth.

He forced the thought away. His fists, almost involuntarily, balled against his sides. The Viscount's words could not be dispelled so easily.

Static rasped over his ear piece, then Shades' voice shattered his silence, "Sir, the Queen is asking for you."

"Shades," he lifted up his jacket, slipping it on so his lapel mic was there, and answered, "Tell her I am doing my rounds."

"She will know that's a lie, she's checked the rota, if she doesn't already know your schedules by heart - none of which include rounds of the palace. She's pressing for your whereabouts boss."

"You're getting too clever," he lifted his lapel to his mouth, standing up and brushing stray blades of grass from his trousers. You train and make a monster, then it turns against you.

"Learned from the best," Shades muttered, "Listen, you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He made his way slowly over the uneven undergrowth, picking his way in the hopes of delaying himself. The silence was shattered again by Shades as he broke free of the density of trees and found himself behind the stables again.

"It's just that I heard...Mabrey."

He was losing his touch. He had forgotten the first rule of making a genuine threat; make sure that the only person that hears it is the person it's intended for. Not only were the rumour mills running out of control but he'd forgotten the most basic rules. It made him cringe with embarrassment.

"Who else heard it?"

"Just me. I tuned to your frequency to make sure you were..."

"Checking in on the boss – you are getting clever and brave. Maybe even stupid."

There was silence over the line then.

"Do you hear a lot of rumour Shades?" He stopped beside the paddock, watched as the stable master wrangled and tried to calm Mia's horse.

"What do you mean?"

Shades knew precisely what he meant but, in the style of Joseph, he played ignorance as if it were his truest friend. Joe smiled despite himself.

"Good god, I'm impressed with your vagueness – well played. Always buy time, until you have the upper hand in the conversation," he muttered darkly, bracing his worst knee against the paddock fence.

He groaned a little. Until it hurt, he forgot about it, then it came back with a vengeance. He growled a little, stretched it out against the lowest rung. The pain was indescribably present.

Shades was clever, but not as clever as him, and he had taught him everything he knew.

Be a brute. Remain impassive. Stay polite. Use language well. Keep your body fit and lean. Don't fall in love with your employer.

Joseph was having a hard time sticking to his own rules.

Shades continued: "Do you want me to do my job or be your friend? The direction of this conversation is completely dependent on what role you want me to fill."

Shades was almost as cool as him in his response. Joe smiled again. Though he was much younger than Joe, he found himself sharing more and more of his confidences with the young man. Softening with age. And he couldn't resist just a little pride at the fact that Shades sounded exactly like him.

"I'm losing my ability to discern between friend and job, isn't that where the problem lies?"

"For you Joe, yeah," Shades answered, "Some might say so. I've heard lots of rumours. Some of them are true. Then again, when does a rumour become true?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

He turned around and began plotting the longest possible route back to the palace through the gardens. He was completely alone as the stable master had retreated inside to dress down the horses.

"No," Shades answered, and his tone was thoughtful, "I think there is only so long that you can keep a rumour as a rumour when it is, in fact, true."

"Are her and I-" he corrected himself, "Am I being ignorant?"

He heard Shades sigh on the other end of the line. He was obviously making him uncomfortable.

Where did the Security go when they needed security? Spain, ordinarily, but that was a 3 hour drive and a holiday away. And he wouldn't go to her – he couldn't. He longed to be doing something useful with his hands; building, carving, sanding, cooking. Something real and honest and vital. Suddenly, he was tired of hiding.

"No," Shades finally muttered, "But something can go on only as long as it can before someone begins noticing."

Joe lifted his lapel to his mouth and began walking back to the palace.

"And what do they notice?"

"Listen, Joe," Shades answered, "Do you really want to have this conversation?"

He knew what the answer was but he wanted to talk to someone about it anyway. He was testing his friend's, his employee's, loyalty. So far, Shades was living up to the task with aplomb but it wouldn't be long before he tripped his first hurdle.

"Why wouldn't I want to?"

He was on the clay path now, the one that branched off and led to her garden or to the greenhouses. Straight ahead was the palace. She was sitting on the terrace and he could see Shades, just inside the door, sitting at his desk.

"Because I know for you that it's private and she values privacy above everything," Shades said into his ear, "Because it makes me uncomfortable. She's just came out onto the terrace."

"I know. I can see. And you're frightened I'll be offended?"

Joe strolled, attempting to look aimless, knowing that Clarisse was watching him as he approached the first of the rose gardens. She was, obviously, not willing to give up. He admired it, certainly.

"I know you will be offended," Shades answered.

"Good choice then," he laughed a little, "To oppose me."

"If you really want to talk about it," Shades finally said, "I know you don't mind a beer and game of basketball. I have a feeling though that your boss, our boss, wants to speak to you first."

"Yes," he nodded and reaching up, as was his habit when he drew nearer her, switched off his mic. Privacy. That elusive moment.

She stood up. He was always so perceptive and particularly with her. He noted she had changed since the Guard Inspection. She was wearing a pair of tightly fitting linen trousers and a blue shirt. She was brushing her fingers through her hair, as was her habit when she was anxious, and he felt suddenly guilty for making her so pensive. He didn't understand why she was so pensive but nonetheless, she was.

"Walk with me."

It was a command. She never did brook any protest. He almost smiled.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Somewhere private," she whispered, "Somewhere alone."

"Ha," he laughed, but he knew it lacked humour.

She cast a strange look in his direction.

"You are my Head of Security," she answered sharply, continuing on her path towards the stables, "You know the blind spots."

"I am frightened I am in one," he answered and was immediately angry that he had said it.

"That's dark," she said, her voice lacking any tone at all, "Come on - use your imagination."

"Ok," he crooked his arm and she slipped her hand through it.

"Are you well Joseph?" She eventually asked as they found themselves at the shadier west-side of the palace, "You seem agitated."

"Do I dear?" He was angry with himself, "I am sorry. Just tired."

"Did you have a disagreement with Mabrey?"

This place was an unintentional blind-spot but because of the fact that it was completely surrounded by massive walls and the little courtyard didn't really require cameras. They sat on the bench in the middle, the sun dancing across the cobbles.

"What makes you ask that?"

"You're angry Joseph," she touched his shoulder, "I can tell."

He sighed a little and turned to her, "I'm not on my best form today. Am I so predictable?"

"No," she shook her head, "Joseph, I would like for you to speak to me. You do always listen to me and-"

"I know but it's quite different," he touched her cheek.

Her eyes fluttered closed at his touch, "Don't you trust me?"

"Of course," he shook his head, "I don't want to bother you."

"That's insulting," she answered sharply, "We're supposed to share things with each other."

He was utterly bemused by this normalcy she was trying to create. The same woman who had turned down his proposal with a promise to think about it, in the pragmatic way she dealt with everything, was asking for him to talk to her.

He wanted to be angry at her but instead he knew she was attempting to show him her commitment to their secret, so he curled his arm around her shoulder. There was no point in telling her that he was petrified, frightened of what was happening to them. That, after all, wasn't his job.

His job was to protect her and if that meant lying to her, then lying was his job too.

He smiled, "I am just tired. I promise."

She nodded then, believing his lie because she had never known anything of his perfidy anyway.

After all, he was a brute.

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><p>Please R&amp;R.<p> 


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